


How They Shine For You

by meltwithyou



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Constellations, Fluff, I just really love space, M/M, Mama Stilinksi feels, Quiet!Derek, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Stiles grows, astronomer!Stiles, basically this is a stilinksi family fic feat. derek hale but w/e, space, under 5k
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-01 23:38:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4038991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meltwithyou/pseuds/meltwithyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Stiles loves stars and Derek loves Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How They Shine For You

**Author's Note:**

> a weird, half-AU where Stiles love space and constellations because his mom loved them. First fic, so ahhhh, thanks for reading!

   Sandalwood, brown hair soft like cotton, and a single finger mapping constellations onto his skin. This is Stiles’ childhood. The finger trails lazily across the expanse of his arm, tracing a straight line from every freckle, every mole, the finger always moving along a predetermined path.

“Lupus,” Stiles’ mother names the constellation at last, connecting the final dot and removing her finger with a flourish. Stiles can still feel the cool touch of her skin on his long after it is gone, even as goosebumps threaten to rise. In Stiles’ five years of life, he has enjoyed this routine every night—and yet, his stomach still warms and a languid smile tugs on his lips as his mother curls herself around him. His mother: a lover of stars and of life and of him.

“You’re going to do great things,” she whispers softly into the crown of Stiles’ head. He feels her breath ghosting along his hair as she smiles, “I know it.” At five years old, Stiles is embarrassed at the compliment but feels a shy hopefulness bloom for something he does not yet understand. He snuggles into the crook of her arm to convey his appreciation in the only way he knows how.

“I love you to Jupiter and back.” His mother murmurs.

And as usual, Stiles giggles, overcome with wonder at the large orange planet so far away. Overcome with the idea that his mother loves him that much. Their breathing becomes synchronized, small mother and smaller son, as the world holds still around them.

He repeats the phrase as his eyelids grow heavy. “I love you to Jupiter and back, Mom.”

* * *

 

His mother is dead and everyone is worried for him. Hushed whispers, distant relatives and cool fingers across his forehead. Stale flowers, dark rooms, and his father roaming their house like a ghost. They are alone and lost. Stiles wants to scream. He shivers and stares at the glow-in-the-dark galaxy on his ceiling for hours, searching for something that he cannot name. He is angry, angry at the world for taking his mother away and angrier at himself for being a bad son. His father withers away in the master bedroom. They are both silent. His eyes find Jupiter, glowing a gross yellow in the dark. The sticker looks impossibly small and pathetic on his cracked grey ceiling. His fingers brush against his moles, trace a familiar pattern across his skin. Lupus. Stiles cries.

* * *

 

Somehow, Stiles survives. He acquires gangly limbs and buzzed hair, an awkward noise dotted with star-like moles and an uncontrollable curiosity that only the dregs of puberty could provide. His life mellows, he finds a friend in Scott McCall and pines after Lydia Martin and things seem to be finally going okay. He’s a normal teenager with normal problems and yeah, he’s okay with that.

And then the bomb drops: werewolves are real.

Suddenly, Stiles does not have time to think; he is whisked into a world of magic and kanimas and _please please please_ _be alive, Scott_ and he feels so very tired. He finds himself bouncing his knees during the day and running through forests during the night.

Somehow, Stiles becomes something great.

His whole life has been a joke waiting for this punchline and he can’t help but laugh.

You’re the boy that runs with wolves, Stiles. Lupus.

* * *

 

   And then there is Derek Hale. Stiles can’t quite figure him out but is not sure that he wants to. Despite his complete jackassery, there is something in Derek that is incredibly powerful. Every controlled movement, every growl as he hisses for Stiles to _move goddamnit it, run,_ bleeds a level of authority that Stiles can’t help but admire. Derek is all hard muscle and harder resolve; and yet a small part of Stiles believes that there has to be a softer side tucked away somewhere inside of him. The same small part of Stiles that believes that one day they can be friends.

  Stiles laughs at the absurdity of the thought late on a Friday night, as he scrolls aimlessly through his five-hundred-and-something spam emails. His room is quiet except for the press of bare feet on wood behind him. Huh. He whirls around in his chair, flails, yelps and falls to the floor in quick succession. Naturally. Derek’s amused eyes and a quiet snort greet him. Somehow, he still looks angry. Stiles rights himself as gracefully as he can manage and tries to look affronted.

“Nice to see you too.” Stiles comments drily to a blank stare, “What do you want?”

But Derek is not looking at him, nor is he paying him any attention. His eyes have flown skyward, where they trace the nine glowing circles on the ceiling. Slowly, his gaze falls and he is looking at Stiles once more. His multicolored eyes seem speculative. Suddenly, Stiles is hit with an overwhelming wave of embarrassment as his face heats against his will. So what, he’s a sixteen year old boy with glow-in-the-dark stickers? Scott still has his childhood teddy bear. Ugh, he hates that he cares what Derek thinks of him.

“At least I have some decorative taste, unlike your empty big bad house in the middle of nowhere.” Stiles mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest to fold in on himself. Something unknown flashes in Derek’s eyes as he frowns. The silence engulfs them.

“I was expecting a Lydia Martin shrine,” Derek says at last and Stiles reddens further, suddenly reminded of the hours of facebook-stalking he spent on a certain strawberry blonde the day prior.

Derek-1, Stiles-0.

Stiles releases a squawk of indignation but can’t find a worthy reply. Derek smirks, victorious and crosses the room to descend onto Stiles’ bed. He is scowling, as usual, but his eyes remain on the stickers above.

“Seriously, why are you here?” Stiles moves towards the bed, hovering uncertainly before retreating to the computer. “In case you didn’t realize, I’m a very busy person.”

Derek smirks, and glances at Stiles’ computer where a spam email entitled, “XXX QualityPillz for enlargement today!” awaits him. Stiles hastily shields the screen as Derek raises his eyebrows. Point taken.

Derek-2, Stiles-0.

“I need you to find something for me. What do you know about the Wendigo?” Stiles breathes out a sigh of relief. This, he can do. Information and numbers, sifting through computer files and codes. He is the boy that runs with wolves, after all.

Stiles searches the internet and Derek dozes on his bed, a comfortable silence falling between them. Eventually Stiles stretches, cracks his knuckles and notes the ungodly hour of the morning. He swivels his chair around to tell Derek to beat it and pauses. Derek is lying down horizontally on the bed, long legs hanging over the side. His fingers are steepled against his chest like an unintentional prayer as his eyes remain focused on the ceiling. There is no mistaking it: he is staring directly at Jupiter, the most worn of the faint green orbs above. He senses Stiles’ eyes and turns, but does not smile.

 “Jupiter has always been my favorite,” he says by way of explanation, and Stiles feels his chest tighten.

They are strangers. Derek could not have known about the countless hours Stiles spent prodding the soft jellied sticker with his fingers, the hours spent clawing at it when he was angry. He could not have known about the dozens of astronomy books hidden away like innocent secrets in his closet, the way his father looked at Stiles when he asked for a telescope, soft and sad and proud as he said, _you are just like your mother, aren’t you?_ They are strangers, and yet Derek has unknowingly found the most vulnerable part of Stiles and dragged it out into the open. For once, Stiles does not know what to say.

The world is quiet around them.

* * *

 

“I really hate Wendigos.”

They are crouched in the woods somewhere, hidden in some bushes. Stiles feels something slowly crawling up the leg of his jeans and hopes it is only a product of his imagination and fear. Derek breathes beside him, the warmth of his body seeping into Stiles’ cotton shirt. Derek rolls his eyes and snorts. They have been crouched here for hours, trying to find an elusive Wendigo that has been terrorizing the town. Two dead, three injured, five scared out of their minds. Emaciated and swaying, yellow teeth and bloody hands, they say. Human, cannibal, a monster? Stiles’ thoughts arrive in his mind as fragments as his stomach growls loudly. He thinks about curly fries and pizza.

“I really hate Wendigos.”

“Shut up, Stiles.” Derek turns to Stiles and for the millionth time, Stiles cannot speak.

How many times have they saved each other?  How many times have they been like this, pressed side to side with only the silence between them? The desperate urge to become his friend, to crack the code that is Derek Hale emerges in Stiles once more, though Stiles feels like something big is missing. The dark sky stretches infinite above them.

“Oh, come on Derek. You love my mouth,” Stiles quips, but Derek only stares. Not for the first time, Stiles takes note of Derek’s eyes. He thinks they are brown upon first glance, but he is always startled by the flecks of orange, yellow and green that lie within. They remind him of planets, distant and mysterious, worlds away.

“The only thing I love about your mouth is when it’s closed,” Derek mutters gruffly, but there is no bite behind his words. He shifts away from Stiles and swears. A roar echoes in the distance.

* * *

 

 _I think I like you as more than a friend, Derek._ The wayward thought surprises Stiles, and he almost grabs his hand back from where it applies pressure on Derek’s bloody leg.

“Stiles—” Derek hisses through gritted teeth, and Stiles shakes himself, noticing the pain in Derek’s eyes. Derek lies bloodied beneath him on the forest floor, attempting to claw at his leg, which is bent at a gruesomely unnatural angle.  

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck—” Stiles chants, not sure if he is referring to his fear of blood, Derek’s distorted leg or the fact that he just realized that he has _feelings for Derek fucking Hale_ as he dies right in front of him _._

“Not…helping.” Derek groans.

“Should I try move your leg back in place?” Derek growls, “Okay, uh, that’s a no then. Okay, I’m applying pressure, that’s what they do in all those crime shows Dad and I used to watch. Can you heal yourself? Even if it’s slow?” Derek almost nods. “Fuck—Derek, I think I…what do I do, Derek?” Stiles panics and looks around.Derek’s eyes dim, as though they are burning out. Somewhere, the Wendigo roars and Scott roars back. Stiles drags Derek further away from danger and frowns. His hands are a red mess, and it takes him longer than it should to realize that he is _covered in Derek’s blood holy shit._

Derek moans as his body imperceptibly stitches itself back together again. “Don’t worry Derek,” Stiles hand stays firmly on the wound, reassuring. “I’m right here.”

Stiles really hates Wendigos.

 

* * *

 

Stiles is crouched on his floor, flipping through his book of constellations when Derek appears in front of him. Stiles admires Derek’s ability to move so soundlessly, especially while breaking into his home. They have both grown in their time together: Stiles’ hair has grown out, his limbs have grown strong. Derek’s stubble has thickened, his eyes have become less guarded. Derek steps into the room and his eyes land on the book immediately.

“Hello Stiles.”

“Hi Derek.”

“I came to say thank you, for…” Derek trails off and sits down opposite the book instead. Stiles holds his breath, wondering what will follow. “Saving my life, I guess.” For once, Derek does not look angry. Instead, he looks like he is seeing Stiles for the first time. The air is charged and still.

“Y’know,” Stiles blurts out before he can stop himself. “You act tough, but I always knew you were a big softie.”

Derek doesn’t laugh. Instead, his fingers find the edge of a page and begin to trace the lines of each constellation on the crisp paper. Centaurus, Scorpius, Norma, Circinus, Libra, Lupus. Stiles watches, captivated.

“Y’know,” Derek echoes so quietly, Stiles has to lean in to hear him. “You’re obsessed with galaxies and space because it’s so vast. Every day, stars are born and stars die and planets crawl around the sun. So many things yet to be discovered, so many mysteries to be solved. Have you ever considered people to be the same?”

“Wha—” Stiles is struck by Derek’s words, at the complexity of the man before him. Stiles suddenly feels very young and very small beneath the world above him.

“Thank you Stiles,” Derek leans in and Stiles heartbeat races. Their eyes meet, and Stiles loses himself in the planets as Derek leans in closer, his lips reaching the corner of Stiles’ own, brushing them softly. Stiles feels hot and cold and as his hands reach forward to pull Derek closer, he feels like this is how things were supposed to be all along.

* * *

Lazy fingers trail along his moles, swerving left before dragging right, each finger travelling along a predetermined path. Derek curls around Stiles as they lay on Stiles’ twin bed, listening to the quiet of the night around them. Derek breathes against him slowly, listening to the rhythmic sound of Stiles’ human heartbeat as his fingers find their way across his skin.

“Lupus,” he says, finishing the pattern at last. He marvels at the paleness of Stiles’ skin in the moonlight, at the soft brown tufts of his hair curling behind his ears, at his long limbs stretching forward to reach his. The only light in the room is that of the moon and of the faint yellow stickers above them. They enjoy the silence together, hands entwined. After some time, Stiles rolls onto his back and strokes a thumb across Derek’s wrist.

“I love you to Jupiter and back, Derek.”

Derek sleeps soundly beside him.


End file.
